


Perfect Stranger

by Dancains



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, set during season 2, voyeuristic fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 17:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12709644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: It had been three weeks since Jim woke up in Ed Nygma's apartment, greeted by the sight of Ed, and none other than Oswald Cobblepot, playing piano and singing an almost-familiar tune. It had been three weeks of Jim still wondering how the hell that came to be.





	Perfect Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> This has been something that's been sitting in a draft for quite a while, that I suddenly had the energy to finish...I'm not sure if this exactly makes sense in the timeline of events during season 2, but it was meant more to be an (admittedly smutty) character study than anything else.

_Leave you, move on to a perfect stranger,_  
_You talk, I walk, wanna feel the danger,_  
_See me with him and it's turning you on,_  
_It's got me saying,_  
_~~Getting me back at the end of this song~~_  
_-Kylie Minogue_

It had been three weeks since Jim woke up in Ed Nygma's apartment, greeted by the sight of Ed, and none other than Oswald Cobblepot, playing piano and singing an almost-familiar tune. It had been three weeks of Jim still wondering how the hell that came to be.

 He shuffled the files on his desk, making an errant scribble on one of the papers with a ballpoint pen in a half-hearted attempt to look busy. He knew his mind wasn't on work. It was one of those none too uncommon days when the GCPD headquarters was a hectic bustle of arrests and other police activity. Despite this, the cacophony of noise around him barely rivaled the wild mess of his thoughts.

 "A friend," was what Oswald had called Ed. 

 Something about that had struck Jim as odd. Oswald Cobblepot didn't seem like the type to have friends, not real ones. Certainly not a diligent, civilian employee who worked tirelessly for the Police Department. He reflected on all of the times Oswald had called himself and Jim "friends". 

 They weren't really, Jim had thought to himself more than once. The only people he could accurately label as such were Harvey, and few of the men from his platoon he kept in contact with, possibly Alfred Pennyworth and Bruce Wayne, even though he knew them in a less personal sense. Ed's name came to mind, but he didn't want to think about him.

 He felt that when Oswald referred to him that way, when he called Jim his friend, it had a certain set of...implications. His sly, knowing tone always left a sickly, warm feeling in the pit of Jim's stomach; it was that familiar curl of shame that invoked the memory of a gaze lingering a little too long on one of his fellow soldiers, or the way certain men's voices, high and breathy, caused his spine to stiffen. 

 That tone made him want to shove the gangster just a bit harder. Made him want to growl through gritted teeth--to do anything to hide what Oswald might see if he looked too perceptively at the rawness in his gaze, or if he could feel the sudden thudding of Jim's heart in his chest. 

 A single moment out of dozens of interactions stuck out in his mind, when Oswald had come to his workplace with an invitation to the opening of his pilfered night club. His reputation as a police officer hadn't been the only reason he had refused it. 

 Still, hours after he had shoved the elegantly printed card into the trash, he had wondered how the evening would have progressed had he accepted. 

 The next time he appeared at the club, the time he had been introduced to Oswald's fanciful, aging mother, he had felt himself overcompensating for his own imagined weakness. Felt his fingers clutched unforgivingly in the Penguin's pristine white shirt, hyperaware of the scent of flowery cologne mingling with the strong smell of Cognac on a mouth only inches from his own.

 Jim blinked, his unfocused gaze still set on the papers in front of him. He only noticed his tightly clenched left hand when his short nails started to painfully dig at his thigh through the fabric of his trousers. His other hand had been occupied tapping his pen on the desk in a nervous tattoo, as if the repetitive motion would drive the images and memories from his head. 

 He suddenly snapped to attention as he saw Ed's tall, looming figure weaving out of the crowd with a towering stack of folders in his arms, seemingly heading right toward him. Jim had no idea how to ask him what had been on his mind for the past few days. 

 In a moment of sheer luck, Ed turned sharply, heading back to the elevators without so much as giving Jim a glance. The detective let out a deep breath.

 The relationship between Edward Nygma and Oswald Cobblepot was the last thing he should have been hypothesizing about. He told himself he was worried about Nygma's loyalty to the GCPD in regards to fraternizing with known criminals, but compared to many in the department who were entangled with dealers and back alley doctors, there was probably little to actually be weary of. Besides, Ed's personal life wasn't really any of his business. Even though, in the time following their double date with Lee and Kristen, he had almost come to consider Ed more of a friend than a coworker. And Ed was certainly single now that his girlfriend had mysteriously skipped town.  _Not that it's relevant,_ Jim mentally backtracked.

 He knew it was wrong, on some level, to just...assume. It was the type of uncouth presumption that someone like Harvey would make. 

 Just because Oswald was at Ed's apartment, looking as comfortable as someone who lived there, didn't mean that they were romantically involved.  _Didn't mean that the two of them were fucking,_ a crass voice in the back of his head whispered. A hand on his shoulder made him jerk involuntarily.

 "Earth to boyscout," boomed Harvey, suddenly too close and too loud for Jim's liking, his skin prickling where his partner had just touched him. 

 "It's quittin' time! Though you seem pretty damn absorbed in those missing persons cases, so maybe I'll leave 'ya here and let you stew over night," Harvey chuckled; the sound was a deep rumble in his throat that usually made Jim feel warm all over. At the moment, he was a bundle of frayed nerves and it only put him on edge.

 He mumbled some dismissive response to Harvey as he pushed himself out of his seat and shoved the files littering his desk into the nearest drawer. 

 As they left the precinct, Harvey turned to him, "I'm not really doing much tonight, did you want to hit up that dive on fifth? The place with the bottomless onion rings after three beers."

 "No, uh...not tonight, Harv. I'm pretty beat." He rubbed the back of his neck, not quite meeting Harvey's eye.

 "Suit yourself." 

 After a friendly slap on the back, Jim was left alone. 

 He drove home while mentally on autopilot, barely remembering how he got to his own front door. His apartment was empty and dark, with the exception of the last few rays of the early evening's light shining in around the edges of the closed blinds. They cast the space in a faint, dying red glow. 

 He found himself on the couch with a stiff drink in hand, after having a few in the kitchen, and a low budget procedural cop show flickering in front if him. The buzz of white noise and dry dialogue from the television does little to combat the cloying silence. With his mind unfortunately free to wander, it returned only to one thing. 

 He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, reluctantly giving in and mentally recreating Ed's apartment around him.

 Red light became green as he willed the place into being, picturing everything from the thick steel door to the neatly washed beakers next to the sink. Jim had always had an eye for details. The cuckoo clock on the far wall chimed, signalling the late hour, it's erratic chirps almost drowned out by the antique record being played on a phonograph. Jim could hear every pop and hiss from the old vinyl. The music was some kind of classical opera--the type of thing Cobblepot and Nygma could both probably identify in a heartbeat. The type of thing Jim would never willingly listen to.

 In his mind he sits in chair by the window, turned to face the only bed in the apartment. His shadow stretches out on the floor beneath him, cutting a slice out of the neon haze that colors the room.

 As he watches the bed, vague shadows manifest into human forms. Ed's long lean figure splayed across the bed with his arms tethered above him. Another figure lurks over him, standing on the opposite side of the bed, apparently inspecting the ropes that bind Ed's wrists to the bed frame. 

The man looks up and meets Jim's gaze. His blood runs cold as he recognizes Oswald's icy stare. His body feels glued to the seat, unable to react or to leave. Ed murmurs something to Oswald, inaudible to Jim except for the tone. It has a needy, desperate sound to it. Certainly not fear or disgust, or anything Jim might expect.

 Oswald maintains eye contact with him as he straightens up to his full height and slips off the tie around his neck. Jim watches, transfixed, as Oswald sheds his silk lined suit jacket next, letting it slip to the floor. It's followed by a shiny brocade waistcoat that catches the green cast of the light. A smirk plays across Oswald's lips as he slowly unbuttons his crisp white dress shirt. The sight makes Jim's mouth feel painfully dry, he tries to say something but only mangled, choked noises emanate from the back of his throat.

 Ed writhes on the sheets, his voice sounding as if it's coming from under water, but Jim can still make out Oswald's name. He's not wearing anything except for a pair of briefs,and Jim can't help but observe the long limbs and sinewy muscles that were usually hidden away under ill-fitting clothes and starched lab coats. 

 Maybe Oswald had always seen what was beneath. Not just what was beneath those clothes, but what was beneath the surface of Ed's psyche. He feels himself shiver despite the warmth of the room.

 His eyes snap back to Oswald, and the heel of Oswald's hand pressed against the front of his own trousers. Any denial in the back of Jim's mind as to where this was headed suddenly evaporated. Oswald pauses to finally slip the unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders. He's pallid and freckled, and the light in Ed's apartment gives him a sickly sort of look. It matches the sickly feeling in the pit of Jim's stomach. He strokes himself through his pants again, before he unfastens and steps out of them, along with his briefs, with more grace than he should have been able to manage in real life.

 Jim can't look away, even though he tries. He drinks in the lines of Oswald's body, smooth but undeniably masculine. If Oswald's face has a bloodless look to it, it's clear where all the blood has gone. 

 Jim watches as Oswald elegantly climbs onto the bed. It reminds him of something he had seen in a documentary once, a wildcat approaching his prey. He straddles Ed's thighs as Ed bucks needfully against the air, desperate for more contact. 

 Oswald leans over him, whispering sweet nothings into Ed's ear that Jim can't decipher. Oswald moves a hand in between their two bodies, lazily stroking Ed through his briefs. Ed groans so loudly that Jim worries that the neighbors will hear it, before he dully remembers that this isn't real. Oswald shifts to plant both hands firmly on the bed, rocking their bodies together instead. 

Jim can't deny the hardness in his own pants now, and it seems whatever force won't let him leave will graciously allow him to at least touch himself. He rubs himself with the heal of his palm, roughly, trying not to think about it too much. It's easier to let himself now that Ed and Oswald have all but forgotten him, too engrossed with each other's company--until Oswald locks eyes with him again, hips still grinding against Ed's.

 "You like what you see, Jim? Hmm?"

 Jim doesn't dignify the illusion with a response. He grimaces.

 Ed's smirking at him too, now. Jim thinks that there's something slightly menacing about his appearance without glasses, the piercing dark eyes unhindered by their usual glassy frames.

 "I think you'll like this even more...old friend." Oswald continues, words dripping with slick mockery.

 He moves to the foot of the bed, kneeling on all fours to catch the hem of Ed's underwear in his teeth, tugging them down in a sharp movement. As he moves back on his haunches, Oswald makes a show of pouring lube into his hand (where the tube came from, Jim has no idea) and generously slicking Ed's twitching cock. Later, Jim would wonder self-consciously why he had pictured Ed as so noticeably well-endowed. 

 Oswald crawls back to straddle Ed's hips again, as Ed continuously prattles on underneath him--a string of obscenities peppered with Oswald's name that Jim isn't paying particular attention to. Jim wasn't surprised that he was the type of guy who couldn't even shut the fuck up during sex. 

Oswald bends at the waist dragging Ed's cock up and down the cleft of his ass. Jim undoes his fly with shaking hands, shoving one into his boxers. It feels like forever before Oswald finally reaches behind him and gives Ed's erection one last tug before positioning himself at the head of it and slowly sinking down onto it. He squeezes his eyes shut and moans Ed's name, unabashedly enjoying himself as he pushes down to the hilt. Jim can see the muscles in his thighs tensing with the effort. He can feel beads of sweat on his own forehead.

 Oswald turns his back to Jim, as if had he almost forgotten he was there. 

 "Oh, Jim...poor Jim, I bet you wish this was you." His hands possessively slide down Ed's chest, blunt nails making angry red marks down the straining muscles. Ed whimpers, in either pleasure or pain.

 "No," Jim manages to grunt, despite the painful dryness in his throat.

 "Somehow, I don't believe that." His eyes drift lower, to where Jim is still jerking himself off in his boxers. Jim feels like his face is on fire, the whole room is incredibly warm. Even his own skin is painfully hot to the touch. 

Oswald laughs devilishly. He flexes his legs, moving his thighs and pulling himself almost completely off of Ed's cock before sinking down again, fucking himself with a languid pace. The motion of it seems both impossibly quick and slow to Jim at the same time. The slick sound of flesh on flesh was only rivaled by own his own labored panting. He's desperately hard but he can't seem to get himself off, can't seem to make the excruciating fantasy come to an end. 

He doesn't know how long they go on like that until Oswald suddenly moves off of Ed's body, kneeling with his back to Jim as he unties Ed's bound wrists. Ed pushes Oswald back onto the mattress as soon as his hands are free, kissing desperately at his mouth and down his neck in an almost worshipful motion, trailing reverently down to his stomach. 

Oswald places a gentle hand on his cheek, causing Ed to look up again, and the sight is almost eerily tender. It makes Jim feel dead and hollow inside, acute jealously mixing with the heady guilt of his voyeurism. 

Ed wordlessly pulls Oswald's knees over his shoulders, and soon they're fucking again, even more enthusiastically than before. Oswald gasps and gasps, coming after maybe a dozen or so erratic thrusts, visibly shaking. Ed comes inside him a few seconds later, hissing through gritted teeth as his hips finally come to a stuttering halt. He flashes Jim one last wolfish, predatory grin before the image fades into a black nothingness.

 Jim jolts awake with a start, fumbling for the TV remote to click off a too-loud infomercial. It leaves him in stark silence and darkness, as he sheepishly realizes that his trousers were wet, the sticky fabric clinging uncomfortably to his spent cock. _Great._

As his eyes adjust to the dim light he realizes that he had knocked over his glass of scotch, the amber liquid staining his beige carpet below. _Extra fucking great,_ he thought. He laid back down again, unsure of what time it was, and suddenly too tired to even bother with a shower yet. He tries his best to not think about the next time he would see Ed at work, or if the shame and anger would be painfully evident on his face.

 


End file.
